


69 (Killer Heels and Homebrew, The Stuff Dreams Are Made Of)

by ThatGirlSix



Series: We Won't Get to Heaven, Why Not Raise a Little Hell? [1]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Family, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-27 16:25:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1717058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatGirlSix/pseuds/ThatGirlSix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he didn't leave her alone right the hell now, Johanna was going to puke all over Finnick Odair's ugly suit. What's a girl gotta do to have a minor panic attack in peace around here, anyhow?</p>
            </blockquote>





	69 (Killer Heels and Homebrew, The Stuff Dreams Are Made Of)

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** _The Hunger Games_ is the badass, twisted brainchild of Suzanne Collins. Make sure to leave a dollar on her bed stand altar on your way out. This story (and forthcoming series of stories) is **rated T/M** for strong language (I've been married to the military far too long to not have a mouth) and implied but not explicit violence and implied canonical, non-consensual sexual conduct. **Spoilers** are for both books and films, although I'm trying to keep this more book-centric.
> 
>  **Author's Note:** So this is my first real foray into the world of THG, brought to you by Jeremy Jordan's phenomenal belting of _Raise a Little Hell_ from _Bonnie and Clyde_ , too many sleepless nights after plowing through THG, and my sister-in-law, who promised me I'd be okay once I got through the first book. I still think she lied to me, but I've come to love THG for the world Ms Collins didn't have the POV-ability to tell us about. I hope I can do it justice.
> 
> Thanks to sabaceanbabe for all of her encouragement and taking it easy on me. Rock on, Sunshine!
> 
> Thank you for your time, whether you tell me about it or not. Enjoy! -- Six

_I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end._  
I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow.  
— William Blake

 

Realization slapped her then, rough and unwelcome: wishing, rough or otherwise, couldn't make either of them disappear. Certainly not Johanna, not when she wasn't entirely sure she hadn't disappeared the moment she used her axe for something besides the trees. And definitely not him. The universe wasn't, in her experience, that kind. The way the cool, steady jackass crouched there said he had no intention of going anywhere. Jackass.

Oh, how she wished she could disappear.

But him? Finnick Odair? Nosy Boy was still talking at her, this  _I know there isn't a damn thing I can do for you, you poor little fool_  look plastered on his face. Everything she'd done to avoid seeing that look in people's eyes now for a year was blown. Yeah, she knew she'd only imagined it before sometimes, but seeing it for real in up (too) close and personal color in this man's strange eyes? The pity was even more horrible than she'd dreaded it would be.

And yet, there she was. Not moving. Not reacting. Not telling him to buzz off. Not disappearing and not  _not_ disappearing. Damn it all to her grotesquely bedazzled hell!

"Hadunat."

Talking, talking, every time she saw this guy he was  _talking._  How anyone got a word in edgewise with him and all the talk talk  _talk_ was beyond her. And no, she hadn't heard a word he'd said — not to be rude or not listen or anything. It was kinda hard to hear around the screaming rush in her ears. All-too-expressive face aside, she didn't have a clue what he was saying, but she hoped it was soothing — hands, nails, too rough, too many, no hands, get your hands off me — because soothing was something she could actually use right about now. But then his mouth stopped yap-yap-yapping as he cocked his head to the side, which only made her want to puke all over his suit because there he was, studying her, the slab of spoiled meat the arena spewed back out when it gnawed all the good parts down to the bone.

So she did. Puke, that is, only not on his suit. That would be rude. Johanna tipped more than leaned over to the side, ridiculously lush blood-red carpet be damned, and hacked up something resembling chili a couple times. By the time she was empty, her throat ached behind clacking teeth, but all the fight seemed to have oozed out her toes. Breathing felt mostly normal. Arms and legs woke up without the  _Hey, we're sleeping here!_ pain. Good stuff. Dizzy was still the word of the day, but even that wasn't as bad as it had been.

"Hey?"

She nodded. Yep, she heard him that time. Bully for her.

"Better. Come with me."

That's it? All that talk-talk- _talk_ ing, and all the one and only Finnick Odair could scrounge up was  _Come with me_? How disappointing. Oh, and a hand. Palm up and open. All she had to do was reach out and take it.

Funny how she'd heard that about a lot of things the last few days.

_(Reach out and take it, bitch.)_

Had it really only been days?

_(I didn't wait around this whole year for you to look at it like a dimwit virgin, slut. Now take it.)_

Maybe Capitol time ran differently than District time? Add it to the list of mindfucks to unsettle the tributes and their mentors before hitting the arena? Maybe?

_(Don't you play innocent with me. I saw you in that arena. That trick is gone. Now use that hand before I make you use that filthy mouth. Take it. Take —)_

Hell to the baking brimstone, no.

Disgusted, Johanna darted her eyes around for somewhere, anywhere to get her hands off the carpet, but everything touched something Capitol. Like her beady, shiny getup. Like her cemented-to-the-nines hair. Like that hand. His hand. Her hand. All of it, Capitol.

Fellow victor or not, Finnick Odair's hand wasn't a concession she was willing to take or make right now, but he had bothered to stop.  _The_ Finnick Odair. A minimum of four other people had stepped around her that she was aware of before he plopped his yappy ass barely outside striking distance. Standard Victor Procedure, she assumed. And why not? None of them were her friends. Call them the faces of the Games she'd known forever, announced and victored and forever known as first and last names, but that was all they were. And yet, The Finnick Odair had stopped and held his hand out. With his perennially television-ready smile in place, he did it right next to a pile of whatever it was she couldn't remember having for dinner.

Gross.

One hand. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Anything to get away from the mess, right?

He hovered next to her elbow until she stood a little less like a three-year-old in her first pair of ice skates. Now, that? That would be a lot more fun than this right now. Grammers always talked about that day as if it were the best thing to ever happen to them. So cold and new with the hot chocolate and the sun peeking through snowy gray and the smell of the pine trees shielding the ice. Perfect. But Grammers wasn't here with her hand at Johanna's elbow to keep her from cracking her head on the ice (cedar bench) because no hand could keep her from falling (failing) now, not in this place without pine trees that reeked of puke.

That this man's hand waited there was something she could almost pretend wasn't so creepy crawlies on her skin bad. She didn't know him any more than he knew her, no more than anyone else who watched her Games thought they knew her. He was smiling for her, though. Not at her or through her, but for her. Because she maybe needed a smile in this place where every one of them has killed someone and has to teach other children to do the same. A smiling hand out. It was something, right? Something maybe a little less awful than the rest of her day?

She could do this. Nothing to be afraid of here. She'd already won.

Reciprocate. All she needed to do. Maybe a little ounce of bravery would be nice, too. No, not bravery. She'd done that already. Reciprocate. A little  _thanks for stopping by_  for the one person to treat her like, well, a person, right?

Screw the mess.

Johanna Mason, Reigning Victor, looked  _The_  Finnick Odair in the eyes.

With a twitch of that smile, he and his hand moved far enough out of reach for Johanna to feel both the loss and some semblance of safety. Both his fists punched open the anteroom door out into the stairwell. And it was a punch, really, violent in the strain of his shoulders and clenched jaw. His heat evaporated as soon as the door opened enough for him to hold it for her and half bow her through.

She'd noticed that the last few days, the way everything seemed to be caught in flashes and whooshes and the smokiest of whispers. Zip down the hall, jerk the stomach with the elevator going up, snap with the slightest sound of a door closing too hard behind. Fury in laughter, friendship in smacks upside the head that may or may not concuss. Burst. Emotion. Bang. Snap crackle pop.

How awful was she to hope her night went the same way?  _Bang_  and all done? Because this was the last night outside the arena twenty-three kids just like she'd once been would ever see, and yet she'd trade every one of these last hours away from them to get through her version of it all. All she wanted was to get it over with before it even started. It wasn't like these kids could die fast enough to save her now.

Fuck, she was an asshole of the lowest order.

No, she was a survivor of a special order.

Asshole. Survivor. Both. Can't be one without the other, right?

Johanna smacked her hand hard enough to bruise on the push bar on the way past her new escort.

 _Escort._  Would it be inappropriate to laugh at that one, too?

The laughter was gone before it got too far — wouldn't want to hear any of that around here — trapped under Johanna's somehow bloodied nails. That random,  _Hey, where'd the blood come from_  sort of thing had put her on her knees more than once, but this time she merely stopped, mesmerized at the streaks up the inside of her arm. Since when did her blood glitter? Seriously, when did she become so Capitol that her own blood had gone glitzy?

"Still with me?"

The Boy Who Couldn't Leave Well Enough Alone took the lead up the stairs, skipping them two at a time with his head always craned to spot up over the railing toward the next flight. He didn't need to see where he was apparently, because his feet sure knew exactly where to go. Johanna's feet, on the other hand, weren't communicating with her wobbly ankles and locking knees at all. She slipped a few times until she remembered, hey, that's what railings are for, moron. Of course, she paid for her steel grip the next time her toes slipped out from under her like she was dumb enough to have Cinderella's nimrod shoe stylist by banging her elbow on the lead pipe good and hard. Up ahead Prince Charming stopped, but he didn't bother to glance cockeyed over his shoulder at her. Prince Charming took good notes the day they taught  _Even Ladies Curse 101_  in prince school. Good for him.

Six flights later, they bopped through another door out onto what Johanna could only think was a small piece of paradise. It was all so immaculate, so square, so Capitol, but the gardens blooming out of perfectly aligned concrete planters were magnificent. After the last few days she'd begun to wonder, but there it was. Proof: Panem could still create something beautiful. Around it hung an impossible price tag, but it was beautiful.

Inches out of arm's reach, he waved an  _Anybody Home?_ hand in front of her face. She couldn't help slapping at it, what with the strange sheen and overpowering scent of patchouli oil. Laughter at her —  _her,_ The Johanna Mason _—_ expense said he was apparently easily amused. "You haven't heard any of what I said, have you?"

Her "um" was stunningly poetic. Pithy, even.

In return, his grin was patient and somehow silly.

Hers? Probably looked something like she imagined from a duck sucking on a lemon.

Yep, those conversational skills of hers were downright impressive. Maybe if she killed Caesar Flickerman tonight, she could have his job. Panem would love her even more. If nothing else, she'd keep the censors on their toes.

Trawling his fingers into the nearest planter, Finnick Odair searched blindly until he came up with a bottle with humid dirt clumps clinging to its belly. His eyes rolled back, blissed out, and he nodded further down the wall. "For those of us who are audibly challenged," he said teasingly as he walked away backwards with his arms thrown back wide. "Welcome to the best picnic spot in the city."

No doubt it was. Truly.

"First time Mags brought me up here? She said this used to be where the vent system let out, but when the engineers figured out they could mess with the air we breathe down there, they closed them up. A bunch of the first mentors put this all together after that. Everybody brought plants and stuff from the districts the next time they came into the Capitol to put up here. A little piece of home before the arena, that sort of thing. It took awhile, and obviously One and Two have better upkeep on theirs, but none of them come up here much. Most of the time the kids are too rattled to come up here, though."

Over in the far end shade of the rooftop stood a box with what amounted to two weak-looking ten-foot pines covered in wind chimes and some browning pink peonies in a bed of wood chips. She wished it could bring her comfort; maybe it even had for plenty of mentors and tributes before her. All Johanna saw was another thing taken from her home that didn't belong in the Capitol. Take, take, talk, take. It didn't belong here. She didn't belong here.

"We all take care of them as much as we can. Some districts, like Twelve," he nodded toward a planter filled with a climbing violet something she couldn't name, "they don't see victors for a long time. Doesn't mean their tributes shouldn't have something, too. Some of us miss home more than others, I guess."

Yep, Johanna could march downstairs and clock Blight right on the nose for not telling her about this place sooner. Last year it would've been a bad idea, but last night, maybe? Or the night before? Maybe then she wouldn't have been out at all, not  _there_ , not out surrounded by that, that …  _that._

"You breathing over there?" He watched her with those eyes again, a little more intimately than she'd like under the circumstances, but he still didn't ask the question she thought for sure he'd be dying to know an answer to by now.  _Why._  Why the meltdown? Why get all gussied up like she's one of the Capitol freaks? Why think she can hide what she'd done from them? Why did she give in? Why give in why did she give in why why why  _why did she let those people do that to her_?

Why didn't she die last year when it would've been better for everyone she loved if she had?

But he didn't ask. He slid smoothly to the floor, crossed his ankles, and lit his fist once-twice on the space next to him. His smile was scarily reassuring once she realized he hadn't even thought to pose the question, not when he must already know the answer.

Johanna took one step back.

Finnick Odair only twisted at the cork in the bottle with his teeth. Around it, he said, "Yeah, you're breathing."

It wasn't engraved by any means, but it was an invitation.

On the way down, Johanna felt the intricate embroidery and beading of the ankle-length skirt snag on every grain of the wall behind her. Concrete sandpaper scraped a raw stripe down her exposed-to-the-tip-of-her-asscrack skin, which only made her torn, ratty guts nibble some more on that ice block of anger in there, but not for long. Save some for later, she reminded herself. Grammers always warned her to chew her food slowly or she'd make herself sick.

With the humidity straining to savor the sunset a little longer, it was stifling up on the roof. Certainly too hot to be trapped in this get-up, at any rate. She hiked the skirt up to her hips and sat with the bare soles of her feet mated, her legs butterflied so she could fan the skirt to cool herself down. There was nothing ladylike about it, but, hey, not her fault. Her prep team said she couldn't wear panties without cocking up the lines of the dress. Blame them.

Through it all, Not So Nosy Now Boy didn't say anything about it. There was no snicker-snort, no exasperated sigh of  _You know I'm not interested, right?_ , no J _ailbait_  version of the loser sneeze into his fist. If he so much as blinked, Johanna missed it. Patience hovered there, calm and green and peaceful, while he waited for her to finish fidgeting. His shoulders, face, all of him held a disconnect from the complete lack of patience he'd had for her the last five days, but she'd heard enough whispers from Capitol and District alike. His tribute — particularly smallish, too far away from a useful growth spurt, and a speech impediment suggesting the kid isn't all there — with no chance in this or any other hell will rise into the arena in not nearly enough hours, so he probably hadn't had much patience for anybody he didn't know. It wasn't only her. She'd cut him some slack.

Maybe time moved slower when she'd been a tribute waiting to die or not, but on the survivors' business end of things, it all moved too fast. Now, when neither of them could do anything but wait for the bloodbath to begin, it was quiet. He was quiet.

Drunk, she thought at first, but he wasn't drunk. Johanna could see that, even as he held the bottle of gut rot homebrew out to her, his tight fist wringing the neck. It smelled cheap, meant to go down tasting of the smoke after lighting a tar pit on fire. Or maybe it was apple pie. The honey piss color didn't look quite right in this light. It could go either way. He, on the other hand, smelled like he should be heading out for a glamorous night, too. His hair had that look. Each slightly glittered curl laying on his forehead was placed there to reflect some of the brightness coming off his treated teeth. Wow, those suckers were bright. His dusty plum pinstripe suit couldn't rumple if he tried. His shoes begged that ages old question: do black patent leather shoes really reflect up? Considering she could see her bits reflecting in shiny smears back at her, well, that answered that.

Thinking she might just hold on to it for a while, she snatched the bottle from him, which he traded for one of her ankle breakers. Which one would kill her first, she wasn't sure yet. Johanna wasn't so sure she cared.

"Nice shoes," he said. Whether he appreciated his or hers, his teasing eyebrows didn't tell. He studied hers, the stitching, the beads, the ice pick of a heel. Johanna thought she might just use it on her stylist's eyeball while the old broad slept. As if he read her mind, he handed the fashionable weapon over, heel pointed away from his chest, and sighed. "Not at all practical, but they're nice."

If he meant the shoes or her finely aimed murderous thoughts, she didn't ask, not when his answer could go either way. Why ruin what might be the last sane moments she'd have tonight? For a few minutes, she could pretend she had a friend, even if he was really starting to stink. Patchouli. Yuck. Instead, she complained, "I don't know how people down there walk in these things. I came this close to breaking my neck when the heel caught the hem on the way out the door."

"Classy."

"Yeah, that's me. One afternoon and I can balance books on top of my head with the best of 'em." She didn't top it off with the  _As long as I don't try to take a step in any direction_ , but his laugh said he heard it anyway.

"You'll get used to it. Believe me, you'll end up wearing a lot worse."

Okay, so even if her skin hadn't been crawling for the last twenty-some hours, it was now. He couldn't possibly mean it that way. If Finnick Odair wanted to scare or hurt her, he wouldn't have brought her up here and kept his patchouli hands to himself. He couldn't have known what he said, but it still made her brace her elbows on her thighs and put her paired fingertips to her lips. Curling in nice and tight, the poles of her arms could shield her cleavage a little. Not much, not in this death(sex)trap bodice, but it was something. Had to be.

There he went again, full of surprises with that same angry flash. For a guy who loved the excesses of the Capitol, probably more than any other victor she remembered, he got how it wasn't the smartest thing in the world for him to say.

Finnick Odair, Man (but still Victor), wasn't entirely what she expected. Maybe even not at all.

Before she could beg off, he shrugged out of his jacket. Permission was asked with only a set of raised eyebrows. She didn't answer fast enough, because he instead folded the grape juice concentrate thing of Capitol fashion and draped it gently over her feet for her to choose to use or not. Her choice. Again.

Talk, follow, sit, breathe: Finnick liked to give people choices. Johanna couldn't say she minded.

Maybe she could hang on to the jacket for a while. It was still too hot up roof-side, but the sun was gone. Who knew what it would be like once the wind picked up like it was supposed to? She could see the storm clouds moving in on the edge of the city.

"You gonna drink that, or?" He rolled his hand in lazy circles, the implied possibilities flitting off into the sunset on a half-dead mule. "On second thought, really, drink. It'll help."

Johanna heard the  _Your week's only gonna get worse, so you may as well start now_  behind it and had to remind herself to breathe again. Blight had hinted on the train ride in how she'd never get through this clusterfuck if she didn't get in with The Kid — said just like that, caps all important — and his buddies. Just because she wasn't a mentor this year didn't mean she won't still have people to keep alive, he told her. If anyone could show her how to do that, it was Haymitch Abernathy, and the only way to get to him was through Finnick Odair.

So she straightened as she informed him, "I've had a drink before," and hoped it sounded more impressive to him than it did to her.

"I can see that."

Nope, not impressed at all. In fact, she was pretty sure that cough into his fist was to cover the laugh.

Johanna snorted, dipping her chin toward her so very there Capitol cleavage  _—_   _Why, hello there! —_  but she didn't drink or relinquish the bottle. It would all be so much easier if she could be in  _her_  clothes, in something simple. She could feel him tensing up to snatch out for the bottle when she wasn't paying attention, but for too long now, she couldn't not pay attention to anything. When he made a grab for it, she held the bottle out and away so he almost fell into that cleavage canyon. "Mine," she teased.

"Less than a week and already she's stealing my booze."

"I'm a fast learner."

"I hope so." There was a glum drop in his voice, so quiet, like he didn't mean to say it aloud. There had to be a natural thing to say here, something to beat the gnawing silence before it truly hit —  _Then teach me_  or  _I've got speed, baby_  — but that would require Johanna to not be surprised. Finnick Odair  _could_  not talk if he wanted to. Wonders never ceased, as Grammers would say.

They sat there, side by side but definitely not touching, passing the bottle back and forth now and then. For the first time since setting foot back in this city nightmares were made of, Johanna felt her mind settle. She probably could've even relaxed if she let herself drink from the bottle, but after last night she didn't think she'd ever accept a drink from anyone ever again. Not here. Still, it was kind of him to offer.

If this was what he was like out at night during his many trips to the city, she could see why people liked him. Given time, maybe she'd like him enough, too.

Then again, no, he wouldn't be this kind to her if he knew.

"Tell me something about Four?" she blurted when the quiet kindness started to make her beaded bodice itch at her skin.

Finnick pushed away from the wall, his eyes pinched so he could get a good look at her. "You still with me?"

"Four is on the ocean, right? Tell me about the ocean? Something. Anything."

"Most summer nights," he said, no more questions, although he put the bottle in her hand for her to hold, "Even when it's hot and sticky like this, I can sleep with the windows open. The breeze comes in off the water stronger right there on the shore than it does the further inland you go. It's cool and has this tang you can taste, but not in a bad way. My room faces the sea, so I can hear whenever the waves pick up and hit the rocks. It's easier to sleep to than any music I've ever heard."

"More?"

"When I was maybe six, my parents were out for a week, so I was left with Mags. She took me out to this outcrop of rocks that juts out from by her house. There's this little blowhole that, when the waves come in, the water comes up through it like a spout instead of over. That probably sounds boring, but when you're a little kid, stupid stuff like that is cool. She held me under my arms and swung my legs into the spray as it came up. Doing anything with Mags when you're six is cool. Have you talked to her at all yet? You should talk to her if she gets a lull tomorrow. She's a lot better at talking about Four than I am."

Johanna wanted to tell him he was talking just fine, but she was too busy trying to catch her breath after the exit door to the stairwell banged open. She'd been so close, too, damn it.

"You up here, kid?"

"Over here."

There was a shuffle-crunch of shoes that didn't lift entirely from the concrete, but Johanna couldn't tell if it was the feet or the shoes that were so heavy. Feet took their time, deliberate and warning of their approach. She was grateful. Especially in this town, people sneaking up on her, even already announced, got her skin slimy. It wasn't something she wanted any of the other victors to see, not when she was in her first year. She had to show them she belonged here with the rest of them now. Surviving  _—_  she'd noticed they all referred to it that way, _surviving_ , not winning  _—_  didn't guarantee respect. If anything, it only seemed to guarantee her pity. Those steps coming their way sure seemed to, anyway.

"Breathe," Finnick whispered near her ear.

She should do that, yeah.

"It's only Haymitch."

 _Only._  Only the only other victor who knew his way around an axe like she did. Of course, the rumor was he'd had a little help with his, but still.

No. Not gonna do this.  _She_  knew her way around an axe.  _She_  was a victor.  _She_  was a survivor. "Breathing," she whispered back.

"There you go."

Johanna took a second breath just in time. Yep, this survivor thing was easy as breathing.

She would've recognized Haymitch Abernathy immediately, even if she hadn't had her chat with the president that morning. Most people out in the districts saw him as the town drunk; he'd certainly acted the everlovin' fuck out of the role every year of the Games she'd been old enough to remember. Every year she'd noticed how his voice, when he bothered to use it to do more than grunt at the camera, got smokier with every burning, caustic word; his crow's feet snicked out with sharper talons; his shoulders didn't shrug off nearly as much of the bloodied weights as the people would like. But she'd seen something she thought most people didn't see there in his eyes, a shrewdness, a biding only sharpened with every child who couldn't go home. She'd never seen him look another victor in the eye before, not that the producers showed on the broadcasts after they have the final eight family interviews to do. She couldn't help wondering what she'd see there if he looked at her, but the light was too dim for so much brutal honesty now.

 _The_  Haymitch Abernathy glanced at the stainless steel watch on his right wrist as he zigged over and zagged the bottle from Finnick with his left hand. They both tugged on it, a companionable back and forth, until Finnick grinned up at him and let go. The smile Haymitch Abernathy gave him was the first real expression Johanna thought she'd ever seen from him, all fondness and genuine joy at seeing another person. And eyes. His eyes were locked with Finnick's. Huh. The bottle lip clacked against his teeth as he asked around it, "You partying without me again?"

Chug.

"It's never a party 'til you're here, man."

"And don't you ever forget it."

Chug.

"Like you'll let me."

"Booze is for forgetting the  _bad_  things in life, kiddo."

Chug chug glug glug.

Finnick stopped smiling long enough to knuckle his eyes. When he opened them again, there was a fog there offering Johanna the proof she needed. Never again would she believe a word the man said, because if he could make his eyes tell any lie he wants, even in the face of what she'd thought good-natured teasing, this guy could make anyone believe anything. No wonder he had the whole Capitol doting on his every word.

Well, maybe not everyone. Haymitch Abernathy anticipated the joke like it'd been whipped-cream–pied in his face every night, and they said with perfect synchronicity, "Uh, who are you?" He rocked back on his heels, his laugh a hot buttered rum chasing the lines back from his eyes. Maybe it was an inside joke. They seemed to think they were damn funny. It wasn't that funny.

Easiness between them Johanna knew the cameras never saw made her wonder just how safe they would be, how themselves they would be if she weren't there to see it. But she was there and she's a victor just like them, a killer just like them, which meant they couldn't be safe with her. Not here, not now, not when they didn't know her. Not when they might see how easily she fell to the Capitol the moment she set foot back here. The warmth of their genuine laughter at each other's expense seared the air coming into her lungs, flushing her skin with the reminder she could never be theirs any more than she could belong to home anymore. Lone victor means lone victor, right? Emphasis on lone?

She hated these men then, if only because they proved her theory by not seeming to notice when she cupped her breasts to hike and frump them around to adjust her scrimpy bit of coverage. She fluttered her skirt a bit, the beading hiding the sound of her choked giggle as she wondered who she had to kill to get a damn breeze around here. If only Grammers could see her now, huh?

Haymitch Abernathy tossed another shot back, his hair falling away from his eyes enough for Johanna to see that any and all traces of fun had been wiped away to reveal another  _The_ Haymitch Abernathy she didn't recognize. "What d'you know?"

Like that question wasn't a smartass answer waiting to happen. Johanna's lips curled, unsure of which comeback would beat it past her teeth first.

"Shush, you." Finnick cut her off, snatched back his bottle, downed enough for two quick shots, and handed it back to Haymitch. "Two," he held up one finger, "maybe three," he held up another finger, and then flipped his wrist to hike up his middle finger, "one-ish."

"That one?"

"Isn't it always?"

The perpetual whiskey-face flush across Haymitch Abernathy's cheeks bloomed almost purple without him taking a tug from the bottle. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard  _—_  maybe he'd had more to drink than she thought because now he looked about to puke all over her dress, and wouldn't that just be the kicker in the shit right now?  _—_  but once she could see his eyes again, they were clear of anything but hatred.

That was when she realized Haymitch Abernathy saw her. Or he saw through her. Around her. Whichever. Maybe shrewd wasn't the word she should've given his eyes, because the look he gave her wasn't the leer she expected from any other man seeing her laid wide open like this. More than anything, she thought he expected it and hated her for it. Victors aren't District anymore, not once the Capitol gets them with the frippery and excess, right? Of course she couldn't keep the virtue her mama gave her in the face of all the pretties and shoes and war paint. She took it back. She didn't want to wonder what he saw in her because whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

Twisting his wrist to hand the bottle down to her, he shook it a bit so the homebrew sloshed around like the acid in her insides, his invitation to her. She got the feeling he was testing her to find out if she saw the town drunk in his face, too, same as everyone else. Would she take the bottle like she's afraid of him, the Games' wasted clown?  _Is_  she afraid of him? Or would she take it to prove she's one of them now? Johanna felt Finnick watching them, casual but oh so very curious to see if she would pass this test he'd probably passed with flying colors. If a lot more rode on this one drink than she could or should imagine, neither of them said.

Hell no, she would not give this guy the satisfaction of seeing her think about it. Johanna ripped the bottle from him with a sure grip and downed one huge gulp, swiping the back of her hand across her mouth to hide the shocked pull on her cheeks. She could hold her liquor. She totally could. That wasn't a cough; it was a ladylike squeal of appreciation. And nope, those weren't tears, no siree.

Fuckity fuckall anyhow.

"Balls!" Haymitch laughed and swiped the bottle a hair faster than Finnick could get at it.

Johanna had no idea if she passed his test or not.

"The kid here getting you settled in?" he asked her, even as he kicked at Finnick's side. Nope, not as drunk as he seemed then, not when he could keep his balance like that, not with Finnick's snatching his ankle out of the air and giving it a good hard yank.

Johanna couldn't help it. She hiccupped.

"That works, too." This time, Haymitch's foot kicked out for her knee. She wasn't as ready as Finnick, but she wasn't a victor by accident. When his heavily soled and worn shoe connected with her hand, she realized there wasn't any real power behind the kick at all. There was a helluva lot of affection, though.

Ten minutes later, Johanna knew she hadn't earned that affection, not yet, but she couldn't help appreciating his effort. A holler from the elevator doors reminded them they didn't have much time left tonight, so their conversation turned darker than her already encroaching buzz wanted it to be. Finnick talked Haymitch up about their tributes — kids, she realized they called them, always kids, as if they needed the reminder — while she strained to soak up every bit of it. Next year, it could be her in the control room trying to save some kid without a snowball's chance. Both men knew she was listening, too, and they didn't seem to mind. Maybe it wasn't affection she felt from either of them; there was a respect there, though.

Haymitch respected her. Huh. It was a place to start, at least. She'd take it.

( _Take it, take it, yeah, fuck, take it._ )

Okay, bad choice of words.

Bang. Whoosh.

Johanna dropped her head back against the concrete and tipped herself sideways until her arm scraped the floor. (Rooftop. Whatever.) It was probably a stupid thing to do, but she closed her eyes. She wasn't exactly lying, but okay, no, she didn't love her booze the way these guys seemed to. Not if this first taste was any indicator. Keeping up with them would take some practice. Dizzy, fuzzy practice.

Somewhere close a bell rang. A lot and far too loud.

Yep, Johanna needed practice, oodles and oodles.

Over her head, Finnick muttered a streak of curses that might've been impressive if Johanna knew what half of them were. With his thigh barely gracing the hard plastic of her hair, she felt the impact of his muscles tensing rock hard against her, though he didn't move an inch. It would probably be a violation of some sort to ask if he was all right, even after he'd done the same for her, right? From Haymitch? Maybe not so much. Johanna popped one eye open, hoping to catch his attention, only to be disappointed at the lack of any chance her plan would work. As tense as Finnick was, Haymitch's back was turned away from her with a deliberate hardness. Not from Finnick. Only her. So much for that whole  _Maybe they aren't so bad_  thing.

"Later," Haymitch said. Facing them again, his mouth tightened into a strong  _Don't Screw With Me On This_  line. Over Johanna's head, Finnick must've argued with him anyway, because the line skinned back from Haymitch's teeth into a full on snarl. "When you get back."

"Two, three, that one."

Haymitch threw his head back, clearly questioning the sky why him, what god could he possibly have diddled to deserve this obnoxious kid. He yanked both hands through his hair as if a good, hard tug could turn his sob into a laugh. It didn't work, and the breath sounded so damn painful that Johanna winced.

"You know you love me." Finnick's voice was all smiles again. Zip, whoosh, jerk, just like everybody else around here.

"Kid."

"I'm the kid brother you never wanted, and you know it, old man." Finnick's knee bounced. "Even the new girl here knows it. Wake up, new girl. Tell him you know it."

"I know nothing." Johanna faked a yawn, keeping her eyes squeezed shut tight. "Whatever he's thinking over there, I doubt brotherhood has anything to do with it."

Drama Boy threw his arms up. "The whole world's against me tonight, I swear. Here I share my booze, I give you my jacket, and this is the thanks I get? Next time, I'll let you puke on my shoes just to see what happens."

"And on that cheerful note." Haymitch dug into his jacket pocket and tossed something shiny at Finnick. The blur streaked across Johanna's line of sight too fast for her to see what it was, but it was definitely a mood killer for them both. Haymitch hesitated for a hitch, his lower lip curling over his teeth as he made some decision. His eyes shifted between Finnick and Johanna, but his words were definitely meant for Finnick. "Keep an extra eye open."

"All over it."

"Right. Chaff's waiting for me."

Johanna gave Haymitch an abrupt wave he wouldn't see, not with how fast he took off for the elevator. "Is he always like that?"

"Thanks for that." Either he didn't hear the question or Finnick chose to ignore it. "Haymitch can be … " The shiny on his palms from the oil had his attention much more than Johanna did. "The night before can get, well, anyway, thanks. Like he said, happy note, we should get going.  _You_  should get going."

Okay, what the hell? No time like the present, right? Out loud was a luxury now. No one at home would believe her, and no one here had the time, not when they had tributes to try to keep alive or sponsors of their own to thank from the bottoms of their so grateful little shriveling hearts. Johanna spit it out before she could take it back. "I don't think I can."

"You have to." So damned to their knees grateful.

"Why? I mean, for argument's sake, what could he really do?"

"Don't ask me that."

"I'm asking."

"Fine, no more good stuff for you. Clearly, you can't hold your hooch. Not that I'm complaining. More for the rest of us when the bloodbath is over. Tip for the gong, by the way? Popcorn. Eat as much of it as you can, as salty as you can take it. It's counterintuitive, but it'll make it easier to stomach some of what you'll see in the control room. And pancakes for breakfast. That old buzzard Po from Eleven swears by them. Talk about your gut bombs."

"I'm asking."

"Eat me raw, new girl."

If Finnick — because he was irrevocably  _Finnick_  now, no matter how he talked to her — thought that could derail her speeding thought train, he had a spike to the head coming. All he'd done was make her want to know more. She crossed her arms over her chest and popped her eyes wide. They might look a little ridiculous and against the point under all the eye gunk her prep team had painted on her, but there were other methods to force the issue if she had to.

"Asking," she pouted. That was what she was doing with her lips, right? Pouting? Her prep team had tried to teach her this part, but it wasn't really coming yet.

"No."

Okay, so it would make her puke, but if she could learn what she did last year, she could learn this. Johanna bent her knees so she hid her bits and put her bare foot in his lap instead. Her toes teased his crotch as if they remembered the lessons, even if she didn't. "Please?"

Grabbing her foot and holding it tight but not tight enough to hurt, Finnick moved her toes barely out of reach. "You don't know any of us yet, so it's not really your fault if you don't believe me, but I'm telling you: do it." Finnick laughed at some joke that wasn't the obvious double entendre she picked up on like a seven-year-old boy in the bushes behind school. "But you're new. You'll try to fight back like the rest of us did when we thought we had a clue how any of this works, and then one day real damn quick you'll realize you should've listened when we told you to not be the same idiot we all were. And you won't see it, not now, not like we do. Those of us who know better, we're the ones who — "

Finnick's throat caught on something he held on to for dear life until his cheeks burned red. He still didn't let it go, not until it looked like he'd decided if he should finish that thought or not. And why not? She was new. Maybe he needed to fuck her over, too, for her own good. He certainly looked like he hated himself enough for telling her what to do that screwing her over would be better in the long run. Let her figure it out for herself.  _Good luck, kid; you're gonna need it. Now off you go._

"Do what you have to," he finally said after a good puff. He brought her foot up close to his lips, placed the gentlest of kisses on the top, and put it back in his lap, both hands wrapped around it now. She wasn't sure if it was a thing of forgiveness or pity that she tried to be Capitol on him, but there wasn't the anger she expected. Not from him, apparently. "But do me a favor? When it's over, don't tell Haymitch. You can find me if you want, but don't tell him. Not this year."

She must've looked confused; she sure felt confused. Finnick wouldn't look at her now, not that his eyes seemed to be seeing anything at all. He was watching a dirty movie playing against the concrete planter across from them, for all she could tell.

"Every year, it's pretty much a given when he takes two bodies home to their parents, who beg him to explain what he couldn't do to get their kids what they needed to survive. In sixty-eight years, Twelve has had all of two victors. Sponsors couldn't care less about Twelve, but he has to go through all the motions anyway. You'll see. The promises. The things people expect. He does it all. And when it's done, he has to deal with the guilt from every single one of the bodies that collect every time one of us doesn't do our part to help people survive either. Because it's never enough. One of us always screws up. There's always another body. One way or another, no one survives but him. Snow makes sure of it. I won't let you give him another grave to dig for that old boneyard in his head. I won't. It's full enough as it is."

A scream in her wanted a hatchet to hack her way into his head just to see if the squishy insides were as dense as he sounded. He didn't get it. All this talk, like he knew anything about anything. People here loved him, loved everything about him. They didn't do the things to him that were done to her. Not like that. She might be quick enough to snatch the nearly empty bottle from him before he knew what she wanted. If she couldn't bust the bottom off to snag his carotid on the end, it felt heavy enough in her hands for her to knock him out with the bulk. Just because he got her breathing again didn't mean she owed him. She didn't need his advice. He had no fucking clue.

"He'd understand. I mean, you saw him; he always understands. It doesn't do any of us a damn bit of good, but he understands."

Okay, him emphasizing every single thing he said with taking shots had grown very, very tired. Something hidden in what he said that time had him sucking back twice to empty the bottle. His knuckles were too white around the neck for her to take it now. Damn it. She pressed her skirt down around her knees instead.

"You don't get it yet." He scrunched up his face, a twisted semblance of a laugh that might be an imitation of Haymitch. "You gotta toughen up, new girl, or this town will eat you alive."

"Hey, you're the one who brought me up here. I would've been fine without your help, you know."

"Didn't say you wouldn't."  _Sure you would_ , added the drop off to his tone.

"Everybody else walked around me without stopping," she said, chin up, as if that proved they all knew only what she wanted them to know.

The look on Finnick's face said it didn't prove a godforsaken thing. "I knew what I was seeing. They didn't. Most of them don't." Finnick squeezed her foot. Johanna had to curl her toes to keep from letting it tickle her. He smiled back at the giggle she couldn't control, but it wasn't the glittery happy smile she was so used to seeing on television. "Happy birthday, by the way. It's a helluva present, huh?"

For half a second, she thought she'd heard him wrong. Because there was no way. No. Because Blight wouldn't have — It was his idea for her to get in with Finnick. He told her. This guy who was such an actor he could turn even his eyes on and off for the occasion, this guy who so far had been the one light of kindness without judgment since she'd come back to this pit of scuzz-covered fangs meant to devour every last bit of her, this guy …

This time she did grab for that bottle, smashing the end off on the wall right next to his ear.

Fucker didn't even flinch.

"You knew! Didn't you, you, you — Fuck!" she screamed. At least, she thought she screamed. The howling was back in her ears, and quite frankly, it was hard to hear over that and the cannon of her heart launching a rough seas assault. And obviously it had no effect on the joker sitting there staring at her so calm and cool like he'd heard it all before. Cork on a cracker, this guy. "What is the matter with you? How do you not warn me? I never would've — "

"Won?" The whisper caught her off guard. It was the same soothing from before, when all she could do was keep her head to her knees and hope to hell no one tried to touch her because, oh hell, the touching. But Finnick Odair wouldn't touch. He was even sitting on his hands now. That guy was back. Even if his words didn't quite mesh, his tone did. "And then what? You make it work, Johanna."

"I thought it was a fluke."

There. It was small, but for the first time, she'd surprised him. He covered it fast, but his eyes gave her an honest flash of something. "Which part?"

"The people on my tour. There were private dinners in all the stops, but no one did anything except in Two. Greta stepped in the room to remind him I wouldn't be available until I came back for the Games this year. I guess I thought she meant the alcohol he kept trying to give me. But then last night, well, you know, last night."

"Snow had you in his office."

Johanna shook her head, hard enough to see sparkles of light behind her squeezed eyes. "That wasn't until this morning."

"This — " If she dared look at him, Finnick's face must have turned a spectacular shade of blue from oxygen deprivation as he cursed their benevolent presidential benefactor from one end of Panem to the other. How he could talk at all with his jaw clenched like that was pretty impressive, too. He made her mouth hurt just listening to it. "He didn't give you the talk ahead of time?" he finally asked when he came out of it.

There was that eloquence she was missing again. Shake the head. Hope he sees it. Because, yeah, she was a little too messed up to talk right now.

"Johanna, did Greta make the trip in with you the other day?"

Shake, shake, shake.

Finnick pried himself from the floor and made his way to the planter for Seven's scraggly offerings. Johanna watched him search the tree limbs for something, moving some of the wind chimes aside with a careful, almost reverent back of his hand. Whatever he was looking for, he found it. His eyes closed and his chest puffed with two, three long breaths. She wondered if he had any idea how much he looked like Haymitch just then.

"Last night, he was the mayor from Two?"

Breath. Nod. Oh, hell. Nod nod nod.

Finnick reached up a hand to one of the wind chimes and flicked it, thoughtful, like it should mean something. "What time is your appointment tonight?"

Okay, hyperventilating didn't go well with a stomach filled with nothing but homebrew. Not even good homebrew, if that was what good homebrew tasted like. Her fingers started to get both stiff and tingly, which seemed like the strangest combination until she realized she couldn't move her fingers anymore.

"Breathe." This time, it wasn't offered like a choice. "I'm sorry. Just breathe, okay?"

Shake, shake, hell no, shake.

"You need to."

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I can't — give you the-the satisfaction right now."

Apparently Finnick found stubborn amusing. Grammers always said it was unbecoming. Johanna couldn't help wondering which one was right. Either way, it was a weapon she intended to keep handy.

Finnick put his hand on the wall, barely an inch above her shoulder, like he wanted to reassure her with a good, solid grip but didn't dare actually touch her. He dipped his head, shaking it with a snort. He did grip her then, squeezing her upper arm with a surprisingly light touch. "You are certainly going to make things interesting around here."

Johanna punched at his straightened elbow. Hard. He was quick enough to get out of the way, and she was drunk enough to swing wide.

"See? You're learning already."

"Meaning?"

"Give as good as you get, especially around here. Surviving gets you in the door, but after." Finnick scratched at one eyebrow, like he needed time to figure out how to not say what the after was. He blinked the answer away and shrugged instead. "After takes a little bit. Give it time. The others will respect you. They just need to see it."

In other words, they all stepped around her downstairs for a reason, and it wasn't because she was obviously so adjusted that she didn't need a friend. Finnick stopped this time. Haymitch stuck around this time. Now she had to suck it up and earn it. Terrific.

"So they know? What I walked into? What I'm supposed to walk into tonight?"

"Depends. Not all. Some of us more than others."

"Haymitch?"

"You were up here with me." He rolled his eyes toward her, emphasizing what she seemed to have missed. "He knows."

Because Finnick wasn't up here with her. She was up here with him.

Haymitch had been looking for Finnick. In his punky suit. Sitting there without a care how she'd been giving him a show. A show he'd obviously seen before. Because he was Capitol.

Because she was Capitol.

Wow. Buckets of puke-spewing wow.

"I'll be late," she said. That bitter liquid of  _gotta get outta here, somebody let me out_ in her throat? She wondered if he knew about that, too. Something yellow and acidic made her think he did. She didn't mean to hurt him, not him in particular, when she muttered, "Wouldn't want that."

"No, you don't."

Under the sounds of the wind chimes picking up with the breeze, the elevator bell dinged. Chaff and Haymitch spilled out with a roll of laughter carrying Haymitch across the threshold. He was the relaxed, monosyllabic Haymitch Abernathy again, if the way he grunted back and forth with Chaff was any indication. They both stopped short, too instantly sober to trip over each other, making her wonder exactly how much every single one of them acted for the cameras until they set foot up here.

Haymitch's "Johanna" had the same warning underscoring it as Finnick's  _No, you don't._ Chaff's eyes narrowed so the slightest dilation of his pupils was only a flash, something she could easily have imagined if she hadn't seen it from all three men now in the last few hours. How many of these guys knew what was waiting for her anyway?

"Yeah." She started patting around her hips to grab her shoes.

Oh holy hell, she really had to leave. She had to go downstairs and wait until she — and do those things that — and yep, she needed to laugh right now because it was coming for her again, and this time there was no blood red carpet to catch her guts or her fall.

"Wait." Finnick put his hand on Johanna's forearm and squeezed. He jutted his chin toward them, even as more laughing victors filed in behind and around them. "Chaff, did you meet Johanna yet?"

She couldn't help it. Johanna flinched at the  _Did you know she's one of us?_  in the tonal push he gave them toward each other. She found her eyes flitting toward Haymitch to get a read on what he thought. The tight-lipped nod she saw him give Finnick easily could've been one of approval or  _I'm gonna kick your ass as soon as she's gone_. Chaff's clapping her roughly on her upper arm, lightened by his truly warm laugh, tried to steer her in the approval direction. She hoped it was the right one.

Five loud, whiskey-soaked minutes later, Haymitch again tried to get rid of her through Finnick. "She's late, kiddo."

Sure, old man, sucker punch the fun right out of her. Why not?

Chaff faltered in his smile, which was obviously meant to distract her from Haymitch whispering something sympathetic and low at Finnick.

Defiant now, Finnick straightened and met Haymitch eye to eye. "I know. Do you?"

"Finnick," Chaff said, his face paling with soft warning.

"No," Johanna interrupted. She wasn't sure if the war of hurt and angry expressions was specifically about her, but she wasn't going to let them do that. She had to give as good as she got, right? Well, Finnick had given pretty good tonight. He wouldn't be at odds with them for her. She smiled over the acid of  _please, please, please don't make me go_  because all she wanted was to stay here and not say a word, maybe even more than she didn't want to step into the tube to take her into the arena last year. But Finnick wasn't as all-powerful as the producers liked to make him seem, not over this. Not over anything. No more than she was, and that was pretty damn un-powerful. "I'm good. I mean, I got all dressed up, right? It'll be fun to sit through the interviews without having to actually say anything this time. It's fine."

Finnick didn't say anything, just looked damn sick. He held his hand up for her, though, his arm and wrist locked for her to lever herself and the dead weight of her dress up. Her dad used to do that, back when he thought she'd grow up to be a lady like his mother and wife, back before he was afraid to touch what she'd become instead. Despite their Capitol smoothness, she couldn't help thinking Finnick's hands were a lot stronger than her old man's. Good. Somebody in her life needed to be.

"Johanna?" She hummed the requisite question back since he didn't wait for anything else and nodded sadly at her new shoes. "In the lobby, under the desk. I don't know if you've ever had one out Seven way, but tell the concierge you want a cola. Pour some on the sidewalk and soak the soles in it. Trust me; it'll help."

If he saw her shrugged thanks, he didn't say.

"G'night," she told them all.

When Finnick called her name again, she was so close to the elevator door she almost didn't stop. His voice sounded sad, ominous, too  _Welcome to the Victors' Club, Wish You Weren't Here_. She couldn't look at him, but she kept herself from running away with her hands over her ears by bracing herself with both hands white-knuckling the doorframe.

"Keep breathing, and we'll have a chair for you by the popcorn popper. Deal?"

Johanna smiled her last real smile of the night back at him. At least someone around here gave her a choice about something, even if it wasn't real. Maybe tomorrow she'd decide if she wanted a friend here. Then again, maybe she wouldn't.

_(October 2013)  
(Edited May 2014)_


End file.
